


Real or False?

by Dach



Series: Fëanorian Week 2k17 [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adjusting/Coping, Angst, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feanorian Week 2k17, Fluff, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Psychological Trauma, Torture, unity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 16:34:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10391118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dach/pseuds/Dach
Summary: Remembering seemed to be Maëdhros’s only coping mechanism. Getting lost in his mind was not something that was meant to come of it.





	

     Sharp, cruel nails ripped through the skin of Maëdhros’s side and warm blood trickled out in rivlets; the elf focused on keeping his eyes squeezed shut. He tried - oh, he tried - but no matter the state of mind he resided in, Sauron’s biting taunts somehow managed to bypass his mental protections. The elf would try to remember warm sun on bright grass, carefree afternoons conversing with Maglor, but all that he could hear was: “I told you. I told you that they left you as forsaken, elf. I told you, and you didn’t believe me. They aren’t going to seek you.”

     Faintly, the Fëanorian could hear a stuttered dripping that gave rhythm to the cacophony of thoughts battling in his head; likely, the dripping was his blood falling onto some far-off ledge. Maëdhros felt heat razor where his torturer slashed just beneath his collarbone, but he could hardly summon the energy to whimper. At once, blood streamed to cover his chest and wet his already filthy hair; the cut had been done in a calculated movement, as if the elf was nothing more than something for the Maia to experiment on.

     There was a moment of pause and murmured words as Sauron focused some of his fëa into the minimal healing of his victim, before the torture began anew. A hot palm gripped his wrist with bruising force, cracking the bone. White pain washed through his head and he wasn’t sure if he hissed, or groaned, or yelled. Hopefully, he had remained impassive; Eru knew that Sauron was worse when he was smug. He staggered slightly when a blow was delivered to his knee, the shackle - ironically enough - served as his only means of support until he regained his balance. Gradually, and with no small amount of effort, Maëdhros forced his mind away from the present and doggedly pushed it into the past, into a state that he knew would make him appear outwardly oblivious.  
The last sharp remark that Sauron felt fit to bequeath fell on deaf ears.      
   

     Maëdhros carefully turned the glowing silver as he hammered it, only to groan and toss it into the scrap bin after he saw the inconsistent thickness. He watched the hot metal melt around an old iron nail with a sense of satisfaction. It wasn’t like there was any need to learn the trade of silversmithing anyways, Maëdhros reflected, undoing the leather ties of his metalworking apron and tossing it carelessly towards the neatly organized wardrobe. After double checking that no soot had smeared his trousers, Maëdhros did up the clasps on his tunic and fled the workshop.

     The red-haired Fëanorian stuck to the shade as he walked back to the castle, dodging the twins and various pedestrians. Underneath the northern eaves, Caranthir huddled, whittling away at an oaken block and muttering. When Maëdhros approached, the dark-haired elf looked up and a shaft of sunlight fell over his pale face, much to his apparent displeasure. Caranthir ducked back down, giving Maëdhros nothing more than an acknowledging nod before he returned to his work.

     The castle was relatively empty, sans the occasional servant or assistant, and Maëdhros walked straight up to the western turret. Ideally, the red-headed elf would have isolated himself in the library, but seeing as Maglor hadn’t been in the outdoor gazebo, the room was probably occupied. Stopping only to break a candlestick off of a mounted light, Maëdhros hurried to the tower with a delight that he hadn’t fostered for a good century.

     It had been years since Fingolfin and his children had last graced the halls; the damn prince had made himself a home on the opposite side of Túna, much to Finwë’s annoyance. Maëdhros’s own father didn’t mind in the least.  
Maëdhros slowed as he approached the turret door. Would Fingon even remember? Unlikely. It was unrealistic for any elf to remember childhood habits; the centuries all blended together, over time. Nonetheless, Maëdhros shifted the candlestick into his pocket and knocked.

     “Fingon?”

     Crushing silence.

     Maëdhros sighed and mentally traced the quickest route out of the area. Just as he turned to take the first step away, the heavy door creaked open. Maëdhros spun around and did his best to affect a nonchalant position. A silvery eye peeked through the crack, and then the door was flung open.

     In the doorway, an elf stood, taller than Maëdhros had remembered. Gold wove through his sable braids, which rested loosely against his chest. The rich blue of Fingon’s tunic did nothing to lessen his apparent regality, but the grin on his face and the way that the belt rested awry did. Fingon beamed and stepped forwards to envelop Maëdhros in a hug.

     “Maitimo!” Fingon laughed quietly. “I was afraid that you’d forgotten me!”

     Maëdhros chuckled weakly.

     “I feared the same.”

     They stood there for a few moments, embracing each other, and then Fingon stepped away to motion Maëdhros inside with a grin. The Fëanorian held the wick of his candlestick to the mounted light outside the door and waited for the string to flicker alight before following his cousin. Inside of the turret, shadows danced over the walls, cracks of daylight permeating the narrow cracks provided by the old window shades. Maëdhros dripped hot wax into the rusty metal cup on the center table, waiting until it was halfway hardened before delicately pushing the end of the candle into it and allowing it to harden in place.

     “C’mere,” Maëdhros heard Fingon say, and he turned to see that the grinning elf was beckoning him towards the tangle of ropes that they had constructed all those years ago. Being cautious not to fall through, the Fëanorian navigated his way into the ‘hammock’, slinging up his legs uncomfortably far and laughing as his movement made Fingon momentarily lose his balance and scramble madly. Eventually, they settled and Fingon slung an arm over Maëdhros’s chest, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. The hot breath tickled slightly, but Maëdhros just hummed in contentment and buried his face in the dark-haired elf’s hair.

     “It’s pleasing to be with you once more,” the Fëanorian murmured. He felt Fingon nod against his shoulder. For a few moments, neither spoke, instead focusing their gazes on the gentle licking of the candle flame not a ways away. Then, Fingon chuckled lightly.

     “Look,” he motioned towards the opposite wall and, upon squinting, Maëdhros could see where they had taken knives to the stone centuries ago. Their names were carved with uneven chipping. “I can still see where you messed up on the ‘a’.”

     “To be fair, I was trying to braid your hair at the same time,” Maëdhros maintained, his lips twitching.

     “I don’t know how you would’ve done that,” Fingon grumbled. “Imagine if you had gotten mixed up and cut at my hair instead of the wall!”

     “You’d probably have killed me.”

     “Don’t exaggerate. Maiming at most.”

     They laughed, then lapsed back into comfortable silence.

     _Something dripped onto Maëdhros’s cheek._

     Fingon was talking but the Feanorian couldn’t hear him.

     _Another drop of liquid fell, this one tapping his forehead and dripping down the bridge of his nose._

     The room began to lose detail and Fingon began to fade. 

     _A harsh tapping at his hair._

     Fingon was gone, and now Maëdhros couldn’t even recall what position he rested in.

 

     Liquid ran over his closed eyes, trickling down his cheekbones and dripping off his chin. Maëdhros’s eyes shot open and a gasp fell from his lips before he could stop it. He jerked upright and the stone underneath him seemed to fall away. He tumbled to the flagstones in a flurry of cloth. Above him, the sky rumbled ominously and more raindrops tore down, stinging Maëdhros wherever his pale robe exposed skin.

     Laughter reached him, and he glanced up to see Fingon grinning and extending a hand towards him, the other holding an overcoat above his head. Hesitantly, Maëdhros reached up, grasping Fingon’s hand as he gathered himself and stood. The grip on his hand tightened impossibly and the redheaded Fëanorian winced, glancing up in confusion. _It wasn’t Fingon holding his hand anymore._

 

     Sauron leered and Maëdhros tried to rip his hand free from the maia, succeeding only in stumbling and slamming himself against the cliff face. Sauron laughed and the Fëanorian tried to escape the chains that once more bound him.  

     “Let me go!” he cried, the yell tearing from his throat and into the wind. The maia laughed again, reaching out a long finger to brush Maëdhros’s cheek, pinning his free arm to the rock with bruising force.

     “You can’t stop me,” he grinned, leaning closer until his breath brushed the elf’s neck. Maëdhros sobbed and bit down on another yell as Sauron sunk his teeth into his flesh. Blood streamed freely, covering his chest anew as Sauron withdrew, his mouth an unearthly red as he grinned scarlet.

 

     Maëdhros jerked upright, his chest heaving. A heavy quilt covered his legs and the fire crackled. From the other side of the room a dark-haired elf looked up from his writing, a look of relief crossing his face. Fingon. Or Sauron. Fingon or Sauron. Real or false. Realorfalse.

     “Maëdhros, thank Eru,” the other was at the Fëanorian’s side in an instant. “Elbereth, I was so worried.” Maëdhros remained silent. “Maëdhros? Do you remember what happened?” the black-haired elf cautiously ventured. Maëdhros tried, recalling pain in his wrist and the flapping of wings beneath his legs. He glanced down and a breath caught in his throat. Though is was swathed with bandages, it was clear that his hand was gone. But was it real or false?

     “I remember,” the Fëanorian choked out. Fingon sighed, sinking into the seat beside his cousin and burying his head in the crook of his neck much like he had done in Maëdhros’s memory. Too much like he had done. Had Maëdhros just reached another mental trap? Would he be chained to the cliff face again within moments? Was he even alive anymore? Was this some sort of cruel neutral land between death and life? Was it real? Was it false?

     “Maëdhros? You’re scaring me.” Fingon hovered in front of the redhead’s face, his expression concerned. The Fëanorian tried to calm the erratic breathing he had only just become aware of, but to no avail. Fingon seemed to realize his predicament, and he pushed him away from the back of the chair, scooting so that the redheaded elf’s back was cushioned by the other’s chest. Maëdhros felt a hand rub his shoulder, an attempt to soothe, and he did his best to relax into it. But was it real or false? Real or false? Realorfalse? Realorfalserealorfalse-

     “Real or false?” Maëdhros gasped. Fingon paused.

     “Maëdhros?”

     “Is this real or false?”

     Fingon nuzzled into the nape of Maëdhros’s neck. “This is real, Maëdhros. This is real.”

     Slowly, Maëdhros began relax into the other elf. “This is real,” he sighed, as if to further confirm and convince himself of it. “This is real.”


End file.
